


Who Dares Sleeps

by cosmotronic



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: F/F, Light Angst, Night Terrors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 16:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14752470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmotronic/pseuds/cosmotronic
Summary: Erin lets her lover sleep.





	Who Dares Sleeps

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly forgot I wrote this. So here you go.

 

 

_Holtz? Are you awake?_

It’s not even a whisper. Barely audible, hardly even sound; just a small wish accidently given breath.

Holtz sleeps deeply, doesn’t often stir once her eyes creep closed and her breath slows.

There’s something different when Holtz is asleep and Erin is lying awake, unable to drift. A gap, a surprising quiet, all the noise left to echo in a chasm of comfortable silence. When all the masks are cast away and Holtz is still and small and stripped bare and Erin’s heart can slow and settle and _soar_.

There’s no pretence, no bravado, no dance.

Erin likes to watch her lover in these unguarded moments, doesn’t truly want to break the spell by waking her.  Likes to savour the serenity and the stillness and the way the moonlight casts silver shadows over them, the scene set in black and white. Mystical, magical, a moment in time.

Erin stares.

Stares at her lover.

At her cheek pressed into a lone lumpy pillow, an arms length and an infinity away.

At her loose hair a golden tangle, a gentle mess that Erin itches to comb her fingers through.

At the rumpled bed clothes pushed low around her waist. Holtz runs hot at night, can’t abide the weight of the sheets or the weight of a lover. Holtz is naked, they both are, and Erin stares at the pale lines of her back. Wants to reach out a hand and run her fingertips unbelieving along the moonlit contour.

She wants to touch, to make this real.

And somehow share what she sees and feels and breathes with the one person who could see and feel and breathe and _understand_.

But instead Erin lets her lover sleep.

She stays her hand and shifts her gaze. There’s a third occupant of the bed, and his name is Gary. He’s a lion, she thinks. It’s hard to tell because of the worn fuzz and patchwork of repairs. He has one eye and one arm, and Holtz loves him.

It’s ridiculous but Erin feels a pang when she sees how Holtz’s arm curls tight around the stuffed animal, locked even in sleep. Holtz doesn’t hold Erin like that, when they are alone and the dark presses near.

Holtz is kind and loving and affectionate in the light; hugs Erin and kisses Erin and pulls her close and sets her loose. Tiny touches, furious gestures and passionate clutches all a surrogate for her elusive words.

But when they sleep, Holtz rolls away from her, all arms and legs and space. Close enough for comfort, but apart enough to ache in the small hours.

Erin can’t believe she’s jealous of a childhood toy.

Because Erin knows, deep down, that these moments are the most intimate moments between them. Moments when her lover can close her eyes and leave all her protections to another.

Trust.

Holtz trusts Erin to see her like this, naked and lost. And her trust is a privilege.

Gary the lion is an echo of the day, a link to the past and the real and the mundane. Gary is real in the same way that their equipment is real, Holtz’s tools and tinkerings and her tactile toys, textures under her fingertips and soothing notes in her brain. There's nothing but stuffing behind his gleaming eye, no complications, no expectations.

Erin is real in a different way, alive and in love and full of complexity. There’s a part of Holtz that doesn’t know how to process that layer, locked and hidden beneath the things she can taste and touch and see and hear. It must be frightening, but still Holtz tries and Holtz trusts.

And Erin, _Erin_ is her starlight navigator.

Erin takes the warmth where she can, physical or not. Shuffles deeper into her cocoon of blankets, holds her breath when Holtz twitches. Looks for signs of consciousness in the tiniest changes. In the crease of closed eyes or the crinkle of a brow or the way soft lips part or press.

Something else, a mumble, and Erin feels cold suddenly. The other _other_ occupant of this moment, the demon in the corner of the room and the monster under the bed. The nightmare.

Holtz dreams in shades of terror. They both do.

Erin’s nightmares are slow, creeping shadows of what-ifs and maybes, reflections of their work through a dream fog. She’s learnt to deal with it, it’s not so different from her childhood dreams where the cruel shade of her neighbour would follow her into sleep, taunting with possibilities. It’s fantastical, and Erin dismisses the fantasy with cool rationale and common sense.

But Holtz’s mind betrays, in blood red and livid green precision.

They don’t talk about it, because no words are sufficient to give it substance. Unmentionable and indescribable, the thing out of time, the colour out of space. They don’t name it, because names would give it power and the only thing needed to take its power away is daylight. And above all, they don’t _run_ from it.

To rip Holtz from its claws now, the thing would follow. Erin made the brave error, the first time Holtz stayed in Erin’s bed. She stayed purely by accident, Erin thinks, unable to keep her eyes open.

Erin remembers jolting from a satiated slumber, awakened by _something_ . She remembers shallow breaths and choked-off noises of terror, and the taste of sweat in the air. She remembers the tiny and trembling form curled up tight an arms-length away. She remembers reaching out a hand and touching Holtz, shaking Holtz, trying to _find_ Holtz.

But most of all she remembers that it wasn’t her Holtz who came back to her that night. The Holtz shaken from the nightmare had snarled and snapped at Erin, clenched her fists and grimaced and ravaged Erin’s stricken face with cold fire and empty eyes.

And gone, fled into the night. A sleepless Erin had found her Holtz hours later, ashamed and embarrassed and sulking on her doorstep. There had been apologies but also something left unsaid, blind relief soon devolving into frustrating uncertainty.

Weeks of careful composure, ill-fitting and testing the stretch of their new relationship. Erin isn't really sure if that's what they should call this, this _thing_ between them. She knows it's love, but Holtz is difficult and maybe love is not quite enough.

Until it is. Until Erin breathes a gentle plea in the aftermath of their lovemaking and Holtz clutches her tight and rolls away and _stays_. Sleeps, calm and quiet and at Erin’s mercy. Trusts.

Erin always lets Holtz sleep. Sleep and dream in the knowledge that whenever she wakes, in ease or in terror, that it’ll be Erin guiding her towards the day.

The monster hasn't come for Holtz since that first night; watching maybe, waiting. Erin battles her own skulking demons, banishes them with a flick of her eyelids. Every night Erin reaches her gaze across the narrow gap to where her lover slumbers and comforts herself with the contentment she finds there.

But tonight Erin feels the other presence slipping into the room, an inky smudge across a perfect moonlit vista. Holtz shivers, and Erin’s hand twitches for the sheets before she remembers herself. Holtz makes a sound, a small sound of fear that spears Erin between her ribs.

Every instinct in Erin’s body tells her to grasp Holtz and pull her from the torment, but this time she doesn’t. This is one battle that Holtz must fight, in the war between then and now and between the real and unreal. Holtz will win, because Holtz is strong and the other is weak.

And she has Erin to love her bruised and bloody soul when it's done.

_Erin? You awake?_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is a fever dream but you're all very welcome @cosmotronic87
> 
> To my regular readers, I'm sorry I haven't been very active lately. I haven't gone anywhere. But headstuff can be a harsh mistress.


End file.
